Strength in the Shadow
by whydoineedapenname
Summary: Faramir grew up in the shadow of his older brother and the Shadow of Mordor. How was he able to resist the call of the Ring and become the future steward of Gondor? Book and movie world.
1. Chapter 1

Faramir held his breath, willing himself to be as silent as possible. He knew it was impossible to outrun his pursuer; hence his best option was to hide and remain unnoticed. The beating of his heart was so loud in his own head that he was fairly certain anyone within twenty feet would immediately be able to locate him. In fact, he could hear footsteps approaching his hiding place. He shrank back, hoping the darkness would conceal his presence. The footsteps sounded closer and closer, then stopped. Suddenly, a pair of hands shot towards Faramir and yanked him out of his hiding place.

"Looks like I have found you at last," a voice said.

Faramir blinked in the sunlight. It was difficult to see anything, much less the person who spoke.

"Over here, little brother," Boromir called from his left. Faramir turned and was startled to see his brother running at full speed toward him. There was no time for him to react before Boromir barreled into him and wrestled him to the ground. Faramir stood little chance, as he was just reaching adolescence while Boromir had almost attained adulthood, in body if not in behavior.

"Alright, alright," Faramir gasped, laughing. "I yield!"

"Nay," Boromir objected. "You have not even fought back yet. Father says we must always stand our ground in any fight, regardless of the force of the opponent."

"I know what Father says," Faramir said mournfully. "By now, I know his lectures by heart."

"Come, come," Boromir noticed the change in mood. "Let us not dwell on such matters. I was coming to inform you of the arrival of a visitor to our city."

"Are you sure that was the reason you were chasing me down the hall and into the garden?"

"I only ran after you because you fled at the sight of me," Boromir protested innocently. "Otherwise I would not have engaged in the childish activity of hide-and-seek. But why did you run from me?"

"Uh—," Faramir began, then fell silent. This caused Boromir to narrow his eyes suspiciously.

"You played a prank on someone, did you not? What did you do?" he asked.

"Nothing!" Faramir exclaimed. Then faster than one could blink, he took off in the direction of his bedroom.

"I have not told you of the news yet," Boromir called after him. "Mithrandir has come and has asked for you."

Faramir, however, was already out of earshot and so did not hear the identity of the visitor. Boromir shook his head, puzzled as always by his younger brother. One minute he was thoughtful and downcast, the next he was playful and cheerful. Faramir felt and experienced life deeply, sometimes too deeply, Boromir concluded as he followed his fleeing brother inside to finally deliver his message.

That evening found the grey wizard next to the fireplace in the palace library, Faramir peering over his shoulder, occasionally coughing at the cloud of pipeweed smoke rising from the wizard's pipe.

"What are you reading, Mithrandir?" Faramir inquired.

"The history of the great kings of Arnor and Gondor," Mithrandir answered absentmindedly. "Do you not have other business with which to occupy yourself?"

"You asked for me," Faramir reminded him.

"Oh yes, that is quite right," Mithrandir looked up from the dusty tome. "Tell me, what have you been learning in your lessons lately?"

"Well, last week the weapons master began instructing me on the use of the shield, and I have been practicing my archery and riding skills."

"That is all very well, and there will come a time when you shall call on those skills. But I am more interested in your other lessons."

"Oh," understanding dawned on Faramir. "My tutor instructed me to read on the history of defense strategies employed by our kingdom, and I am still learning the tongues of other peoples."

"Good, good," Mithrandir murmured. "Tell me, what peoples are there on Middle-earth?"

"Men of many kingdoms, Mithrandir. Dúnedain, from which our kingly line comes. Peoples of Gondor, Harad, Rohan, and many more. I do not understand all of the divisions, and sometimes it seems to me they have more in common than in difference, and these categories are more constructs of scholars than in reality."

"Truly?" the wizard responded, regarding the Steward's young son thoughtfully. "Tell me about the other races."

"Elves, dwarves, wizards," Faramir listed. "Ents, orcs—"

"Have you heard of halflings?" Mithrandir interrupted him. "Or hobbits?"

"Nay, I have not. What are they?"

"I suggest you look into the matter yourself. You might find it interesting. But now I must be on my way," said the wizard, standing up.

"But you have not even slept or bathed, and you are departing already?" Faramir asked.

"I am called the Grey Pilgrim for a reason, Faramir."

"I suppose," Faramir said, standing as well. "Perhaps when you have more time on a future visit, you can tell me about the lands and peoples you have encountered on your travels."

"All in good time," the wizard patted the young man on the shoulder. "Meanwhile, continue learning and remain hopeful. The Shadow grows, but do not let it take root in your heart."

"What do you mean, Mithrandir?"

"All in good time, all in good time," was all Mithrandir would reveal.

Since it was late into the night, Faramir was the sole person to walk Mithrandir to the stables and send him off at the gate. He gazed after the horse and rider until he could no longer make out the speck, then turned his steps toward his room. Mithrandir always had such wonderful tales of new sights and adventures, so Faramir was eager to spend time listening to him. For now, though, he would have to content himself with the worlds opened to him by his tutor and the books in the library. Tomorrow he would search for a treatise on the world of halflings.


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you mean? You once proclaimed yours to be the most extensive collection in all the Western kingdoms."

"Yes, my young lord. But—"

"Then why have you no manuscripts on the race of Halflings?"

"I may be able to retrieve some scrolls from the archives, if that pleases you. But may I ask, why the sudden interest?"

"No particular reason," Faramir answered the scholar. "I must go to my lessons, but please send word when the scrolls arrive."

"As you wish."

Faramir strode from the court library into the stone-lined hallway, the walls echoing with every step he took. Frankly, he was not looking forward to the coming lesson. His weapons master had told him he was ready for the next level of training, and an evaluation was in order. Evaluations usually meant hordes of onlookers, as well as his father. Faramir was an able warrior, perhaps not as dazzling as his elder brother, but promising nonetheless. His father, though, seemed to only notice his every deficiency; he was too studious, too cautious, too weak.

Sighing in sorrow, the young man reached the armory and began putting his armor pieces on. The weapons master entered the room shortly after. He was an older, graying man past his prime for the battlefield but skilled enough in technique to engage in training. At first glance, his drawn face and strong brow might have suggested an angry, sullen man, but Faramir knew beneath the surface was a gruff, gentler man longing for peace.

"Good, you are here," the master said. "Today, your evaluation will begin. If you should succeed, you will join the ranks of Gondor's finest soldiers."

"I am ready," Faramir responded. "What is my task?"

"Come," the older man said in response, leading the way to the courtyard. "The patrol awaits."

"The patrol?" Faramir echoed. He had little time to wonder at the connection between a patrol and his evaluation as the courtyard was only a small distance away. There stood a six-man party, lightly armed.

"Faramir, your task is to accompany this scouting party to the eastern borders near the River Anduin. After a week, return to the White City and report on activity in the area. You are to depart immediately. Your horse and provisions are being brought here as we speak."

"Yes, sir," Faramir nodded. He tried to maintain a calm appearance as a future captain of Gondor ought to look. But on the inside he could hardly contain his anticipation. An entire week out from under the watchful eye of his father and older brother, and a chance to go on a patrol! To be certain, a patrol was no picnic, but it was frequently among the soldiers and rangers that Faramir felt most at home. They had little care for courtly manners and high ambitions, favoring instead the values of valor and loyalty.

In less than an hour, the group of seven had left the city behind them, riding east at a slow trot. The men had clearly patrolled with one another before, as evidenced by their good-natured camaraderie. Faramir had remained silent for the most part, however, preferring to observe the dynamics of the group first. He was riding at the rear, and closest to him was the second youngest member of the party, who also was rather quiet. Further ahead were three seasoned soldiers, comfortable in their saddles and in their positions. They were relishing the opportunity to ride in the open air, having been assigned to guard duty on the city walls for the past month. At the head of the column were the leader and his lieutenant, deep in conversation. At length, Faramir resolved to make conversation with his silent companion.

"Which part of the eastern border will we be patrolling?" he asked.

"I have heard we are to cross the River," the young man replied. He was clean-shaven and not much older than Faramir, perhaps Boromir's age. Sandy brown hair blew in his eyes with the wind, and he had a ready smile that was not yet tinged with battle hardiness.

"Across the River? To Ithilien, you mean?" Faramir inquired.

"That is indeed our path," one of the older men answered. They had sharp hearing, Faramir resolved, as the two youths were many paces behind them.

"Have you seen that land?" Faramir yelled, the distance and the breeze compelling him to yell. The three older men slowed their horses so Faramir and his companion could draw level with them. Then the first man who had called back to them answered.

"Twice I have been there. Once when I was on my first patrol, just like you. Another time when the Rangers asked for reinforcements. It is a beautiful land, my lord. Beautiful but dangerous," he recalled.

"My grandfather had a farm there when he was a young man. Then the Shadow came to Mordor and he fled across the River with my grandmother," another chimed in.

"I myself have never been there, but it is a true testing ground of all our abilities. Only the hardiest warriors choose to stay here, guarding our city from the enemy in this thankless task," the third commented.

"Why is our party patrolling the border, then?" Faramir's young companion asked. "Are there not soldiers or Rangers better able to perform the task?"

Before any of the other men could answer, they were halted to rest and water the horses.

The leader tossed his waterskin at Faramir.

"Youngest one fills them all," he laughed, but not unkindly. Faramir stood up from where he was sitting and set off to find a spring. As he stepped further from their resting place, he breathed in the fresh air. It was tainted neither by the Shadow of the Eye to the east, nor by the squalor and stench that sometimes filled his beloved city. Yes, they were entering a beautiful land.

"Faramir!" he heard one of the men call teasingly. "Have you gotten lost on your first day already?"

Faramir laughed. During the few short hours together, he already felt he could trust his companions and share meals with them. He was looking forward to the remainder of the week.

"Nay, Beregond," he shouted back. "I am sorry to disappoint you in that regard."


	3. Chapter 3

The past five days of the patrol had proved uneventful and routine, to the extent that Faramir felt he could go through the motions of breaking up camp while half asleep, which was what he was doing now, having taken the second and third watches the night before.

"Careful now," a voice whispered at his elbow, causing him to nearly jump. Perhaps he was not as alert as he had imagined.

Beregond gave a soft laugh when he saw how he had startled the young son of the steward, and the guilty and furtive glances that Faramir gave toward the leader.

"Do not worry. No one else noticed," he reassured Faramir. "I only saw you staring off into the distance, and wanted to know how you were getting on."

"I could do with a few hours of sleep," Faramir admitted, trying to fold his bedroll with more energy than he truly felt.

"The first patrol is always the worst," Beregond reassured him. "After that, you gradually get used to feeling tired, and you learn to manage it."

"If you say so," Faramir answered as the patrol leader signaled for their departure.

As the ride wore on, Faramir was beginning to question his ability to manage his fatigue. Sure, he had always been the diligent type, never spending a morning in bed if it could be spent on the training fields or in the library. But he had never had cause to sleep poorly for several consecutive nights, and still be responsible for his own welfare as well as the welfare of his comrades. His greatest worry was that a moment of weakness would bring him embarrassment in front of his newfound companions, or worse, harm to the company. Much to his relief, a watering break was called for, and he dismounted and stretched his stiff muscles.

"Let us refill our water supply," suggested the second youngest member of the party, who was named Bergil, nudging Faramir in the shoulder. Faramir followed him wordlessly to a nearby stream, holding the waterskins of the rest of the group.

"Trust me, it gets better," Bergil said as he straightened after filling one skin.

"What are you speaking of?" Faramir asked in confusion.

"The tiredness," Bergil answered.

"Is it that obvious?" Faramir asked his friend with some anxiety.

"Just a tad. But don't worry," he grasped Faramir's forearm as the steward's son began to turn away. "None of us think the worse of you for it."

"But how am I to gain the respect of other men if I cannot even keep watch without yawning?"

"Why do you expect so much from yourself? You are not one of those elves in the stories you tell. You are human, my young lord. To be a leader is not to be without weakness. It is to know you have weakness and not let it take hold of you."

"This is a wise saying, Bergil," Faramir told his friend. "From where did you gain this insight?"

"Much thought and contemplation," Bergil smiled. He looked up as several more men from their company joined them at the water's edge, leading the horses. Beregond, who overheard the last snatches of their conversation, made his way to the two young men.

"Thought and contemplation, eh Bergil?" he laid a hand on Bergil's shoulder.

"Ah, well," Bergil hemmed uneasily. "I may have also gleaned some wisdom from the elder members of the patrol."

"That's more like it," Beregond said, then turned and headed back to camp, leaving the two young men to shake their heads after him.

"He's much like a father to me, you know," Bergil mused.

"Beregond?" Faramir questioned.

"Yes. When I first joined patrol, I was as green as moss after a spring rain. He took me under his wing and taught me tracking skills. When I caught an illness after an unfortunate tumble in the river, he nursed me back to health."

"Does he have any children of his own?"

"He is not betrothed to any woman yet, though he wishes to be. I have half a mind to introduce him to my older sister. They would get on well together."

"Then why do you not?"

"We are not a family of the sword. My father was a cobbler and my mother a seamstress. My sister is a laundress."

"How then did you become a soldier?"

"When my parents were killed on the way to visit their cousins in the country, I took up the sword so I would not be helpless in the face of danger. But now I see that the life of a soldier is filled with just as much danger, and I do not want my sister to constantly live in fear of her loved ones' wellbeing. She has lost much already when our parents were murdered."

"I am sorry for your loss," Faramir murmured.

"Thank you. And I know you are not without loss either."

"My mother." It was more a statement than anything.

"Do you remember her?"

"Only vague memories," Faramir whispered. "I remember a gentle smile, a calming fragrance, a loving embrace, and beautiful eyes."

"Treasure those always," Bergil reminded him. "They are memories from which you can draw your strength when you feel you can no longer go on."

"More wisdom from Beregond?" Faramir asked half-jokingly.

"Nay, my own," Bergil answered as they made their way up from the bank and back to the rest of the group.

That evening, the patrol gathered around the fire in silence, watching the flames dance on the few logs piled on the kindling. Each man was deep in his own thoughts, and the only sounds that could be heard were the crackling of twigs and the soft bubbling of their supper in the pot.

"Well," the lieutenant suddenly spoke. He had hardly spoken a word to the rest of the patrol that week, being of the seasoned veteran type who found little purpose in speaking but communicated all that was necessary through a glance of his eyes.

"Well," he repeated. "Tonight is the most dangerous night of the patrol. I know that tomorrow we return to our homes, baths, and a bed. But let us not grow complacent, do you hear?"

"Yes, sir," five voices called back.

As luck would have it, Faramir was assigned the second watch once again. He laid down in his bedroll to catch a few winks of sleep before his turn to stand guard. It felt like only seconds had passed before he was awakened. Trying not to groan, he got up and took the torch handed to him. Only the starry sky above kept him company as he stared at shadows just beyond the edge of the fire's glow, seeing danger where there was none, and hearing growls carried in the air when it was only the wind howling across the plains. Gradually, the sky grew slightly lighter, and Faramir awakened the man who took the third watch, then fell onto his bedroll and was fast asleep.

The next morning, all seven members of the patrol looked eagerly to the White City which emerged on the horizon. Even the horses seemed to sense their destination as they picked up their pace and arrived at the gates around midday. Groomsmen appeared to take the horses' reins and the weapons master greeted the leader of the patrol.

"How did our young lord perform on this expedition?" he inquired.

"Quite adequately," the leader said in reply. "I recommend that he pass this evaluation and be promoted to the next level of training."

"Excellent," the weapons master beamed, which was quite a sight to behold on the weathered old face.

Faramir, meanwhile, bade farewell to the men he had come to know and trust, and made his way to the family quarters. He was waylaid, however, by a sudden blur and shadow from his left. Without thinking, Faramir sidestepped the oncoming mass and pushed it to the ground, and blinked in surprise at his brother sprawled on the stones.

"Boromir! Sorry!" he hurriedly helped his brother off the ground.

"No worries," Boromir grinned, brushing himself off. "I see you have learned a thing or two on patrol."

"Very useful things, that is true," Faramir told him as they walked side by side to his rooms, where he unloaded his pack and began to undress. Boromir studied his younger brother as he moved about. It was hard to get past the dirt and grime covering every inch of him. But underneath, Boromir noticed other more subtle things too. The way he carried himself, the wearied strength he exuded, the look in his eyes. Something told Boromir that, in the span of a week, his brother had changed, had become older.

"What are you looking at?" Faramir's voice brought him back from his reverie.

"Nothing," Boromir shook his head. "Just thinking, is all."

"Then do you mind taking your thinking elsewhere while I have some privacy to prepare for my bath?"

"Of course, brother," Boromir laughed as he headed towards the door. It was good to know his brother had not completely changed overnight. His gentle spirit, though matured, was still there. And if Boromir could do anything about it, that spirit would never be lost, no matter how much the world's dark threats, and for that matter, Denethor's dark threats, sought to destroy it.


	4. Chapter 4

Passing the evaluation meant more sessions for training and book learning, to the extent that Faramir felt he was falling into bed exhausted each night while the days blended together in an endless cycle. He saw little of his family during these next few weeks; the silent meals with his father in the echoing great hall drifted by in a hazy blur. Boromir was on patrol and thus was unavailable to break up the monotonous yet hectic pace in which Faramir spent his days.

One misty morning several weeks later, Faramir rubbed his eyes and walked into his morning tutoring session and found a map and small wooden figures instead of the usual leather-bound books on the table.

"Good morning," he greeted his tutor. "What is this?"

"This," the tutor huffed as he bent down to pick up a stray figure which had made its way under the table. "This is what the captains of Gondor use to strategize."

Intrigued, Faramir stepped up to the table to study its displays. Gondor featured prominently on the map, with several outlying territories labeled. The remainder of the map was blank.

"What of the other lands which surround us?" he asked.

"How do you know they exist?" the tutor countered.

Faramir gave his tutor a strange look and bit his lip, uncertain what point the tutor was trying to emphasize.

"I have seen them," he eventually ventured. "On my travels and on maps I have studied."

"Very good. There will be times, Faramir, when you will have to rely on your own experiences to assess a situation. Other times, you will be required to gather more intelligence before making a decision."

Faramir nodded but said nothing.

"Now, your task is to use this day to gather what information you judge to be important. The day after, I will present you with scenarios and expect you to formulate strategies armed with naught but your acquired information and your wits."

"What type of information should I be gathering? The geographical boundaries of our allies and enemies? The numerous tenuous alliances? The availability of crops and hunting game to feed a moving army?"

The tutor shrugged.

"In life you will not know what is needed until the moment calls for it. You can only be as prepared as possible to face each day and circumstance. Now do not tarry here any longer; your time for information-gathering grows short."

With that, he dismissed the young lord, who sat down on a nearby chair and scratched his head, then his patchy beard that was just starting to grow. Sighing, he cast his eyes here and there, looking for inspiration among the dusty bookshelves and equally dusty windows. He stood, the chair scraping against the floorboards when he pushed it back. Faramir paced to and fro in the library, looking up once in a while for inspiration and then down in contemplation. Finally, he lifted his head resolutely and strode out of the library. That day, servants, courtiers, and guards observed the steward's son in nearly every corner of the citadel, with a thoughtful and determined look on his face, clutching sheets of parchment in ink-stained hands.

The following morning, a haggard-looking Faramir waited for his tutor in the library. He did not have to wait long before the older man entered.

"Why, young sire, you look like you have not slept a wink," he exclaimed.

"I slept multiple winks," Faramir replied. "Do not worry. It will not impair my judgment."

"If you say so," the tutor conceded skeptically. "Now, tell me what you would do in this situation."

In the next several hours, scenario after scenario was thrown at Faramir, who responded as best he could with his limited experience and knowledge. Just when he thought he would throw a tome at his tutor if he heard the word "hypothetically" one more time, the tutor announced there was only one more scenario remaining.

Faramir sat up straighter, summoning up his energy to face this one last task. He nodded to indicate his readiness.

"The enemy approaches your strategic stronghold from the east. It has a rich history, having been in your kingdom's hands for centuries. Two generations ago, it was overtaken by your enemy but you have recently regained it at great expense of life. It sits at a crucial crossroad and enables you to control movement of trade as well as maintain a defense barrier against eastern threats."

At this point, the tutor positioned the wooden figures accordingly on the map. Then he proceeded.

"Over the last few months, your guardsmen have been harried by frequent raids in the surrounding areas, which have grown bolder, culminating in today's imminent direct attack on your position. Your scouts report an overwhelming number of enemy soldiers, enough to overrun your garrison. Morale in your company is declining due to the constant barrage of enemy attacks. What do you do?"

"I would send for reinforcements and hold the position if possible. It is clearly important for the defense of the kingdom for military and commercial purposes, but also the recent bloodshed to regain it would still be imprinted on the people's minds. Some may interpret it as dishonor of the sacrifice of the fallen were we to give up our position without a fight."

"Some of the riders you send out for reinforcements are struck down by your enemy. The rest are en route to other garrisons, but your advisors inform you that reinforcements will not arrive until two days' time."

Faramir furrowed his brow and frowned. He tilted his head first to the right, then to the left, as though physically weighing the decision in his mind.

"To preserve my men's lives, I would order a retreat."

"You would leave this important location in your enemy's hands?"

"The retreat would only be temporary. Fortresses can be taken, lost, and retaken. Men's lives can only be taken once. I would have my company live and return, than be spent in a glorious yet futile cause."

"I see."

The tutor's short response was not at all what Faramir had expected. He waited for the tutor to speak again, to comment more on the scenario or to critique his performance. The man did neither.

"Is that all?" Faramir asked. "How did I do? Did I make the right decision?"

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that," the tutor replied. "There is no one who can tell whether you have made the right decision. Today you have shown me that you can make wise decisions, but that is not the same as right decisions. A right decision takes into consideration the needs of others and the longer range ramifications. A wise decision is one you can live with, and one that others will follow."

Faramir tried to contain his confusion at this fine distinction.

"It seems to me that oftentimes, a wise decision and a right decision are one and the same," he reasoned.

"Yes, that is true," the tutor agreed. "I merely meant that, today, I can judge your decisions as wise, but I do not know if they are right."

"How do you mean?"

"You will only know when the time comes. These are hypothetical situations, after all. Did I not make that clear when I 'hypothetically'?"

Faramir now tried not to groan.

"No, I understand," he quickly said. Then he hesitated before continuing, "What did Boromir say when you posed this last scenario?"

"What does it matter, young sire? You and he are not the same, and you ought not to command in the same manner."

"So he fought to keep the stronghold then, to the end," Faramir concluded. When the tutor did not deny it, he knew his assumption was correct.

He sighed and said with quiet regret, "I am not a warrior. I can never be like him. It is good that father can depend on him."

With that, Faramir bade his tutor a good day and made to depart for the noon meal, walking down the corridor toward the great hall. The tutor gazed after him, sadness and pity evident in his eyes. Here was a talented young man, and no one seemed to appreciate his gifts. If only the lady were still living.

The tutor was not given to sudden impulses, but on this occasion he could not restrain himself.

"Lord Faramir!" he called out, stepping out into the hallway.

Faramir stopped and turned around.

"Your mother, the Lady Finduilas, would have been proud of you," the tutor stated.

Faramir wanted to believe these words, but he had learned long ago to build walls around his heart, lest it be shattered into a million little pieces.

"You knew her?" he prompted.

"Aye. She was a beautiful lady to behold, but moreover she had a beautiful soul full of kindness and gentleness. I believe you take much after her."

"Pity that neither father nor Gondor has use for a man of beautiful soul," Faramir said roughly, before turning abruptly and continuing on his way. His chest felt as though it were about to burst, torn in two directions. On one hand, he wanted to believe that his mother would have approved of him. On the other hand, he told himself, to crave that sort of approval was to show weakness, and weakness was inadmissible.

Shaking his head, the tutor turned to reenter the library. So deep in thought was he that he gasped in surprise when someone cleared his throat. He looked up and jumped.

"My Lord Denethor!" he fumbled. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," was the curt answer, accompanied by a severe glare. "I believe it is time for you to consider retirement."


	5. Chapter 5

Steam was rising steadily from the cup in his hands, but Faramir made no move to drink from it. He hardly noticed how tightly he clutched it, the heat turning his fingers and palms red. His vacant stare took in nothing from his surroundings.

Across the fire from Faramir sat two soldiers of Gondor who exchanged worried glances. They were men of action, and the torrential rain outside the cave where they had taken shelter made them feel penned in. Their restlessness was augmented by the palpable tension emanating from Faramir. Neither of them knew how to break the silence and draw out the Steward's young son, nor were they sure they wanted to open the proverbial floodgates. What could they say? What words of comfort could they offer?

Finally, one spoke.

"Here," he said roughly, reaching for Faramir's cup. "If you aren't going to drink it, might as well not burn yourself."

Faramir shook himself and absentmindedly surrendered the container.

"Thank you," he mumbled, more from well-trained habit than anything.

The man nodded and exchanged glances again with his fellow soldier, who gestured at him to keep conversing.

"Faramir," the man tried again.

Faramir raised his head and looked at him.

"What is it, Beregond?" he asked with a weariness that belied his youthful years.

"Would you like to talk about what happened today?" Beregond ventured.

"No," Faramir answered. "Not tonight. I am going to turn in early."

With that, he retired to his bedroll and turned his back to the two soldiers, who found themselves exchanging more worried glances this night than they had on any previous expedition.

* * *

The day had begun much like other mornings with a silent breakfast in the Great Hall, Faramir at one end of a long table and Denethor at the other end. Beregond had just arrived for his watch on the third level of the city walls.

"You are smiling so widely, your face may very well split," a fellow guard greeted him jokingly.

Beregond grinned in return.

"And am I not allowed to smile, when I have a lovely wife at home and a babe on the way?"

"Aye, that is occasion to celebrate indeed. Say, does Bergil have any more sisters to whom I can be introduced?"

"Nay, my lady is the only one!" At this, Beregond looked dreamily over the walls until his friend called him back.

"Beregond! Leave the dreaming to the nighttime and attend to your duties!" he cautioned. "You do not want to draw the ire of the commander for neglecting the watch."

"You are right," Beregond admitted, but he continued smiling, so merry was his heart. Around midday he was startled by a tap on his shoulder. He turned swiftly.

"Faramir, my lord!" Beregond tried to hide the fact that he did not hear Faramir's approach. "You should be in the rangers, with such a quiet footfall."

"Come now, none of that 'my lord' business," Faramir laughed. "And it was not hard to come from behind when you have been staring into the clouds."

Beregond flushed slightly.

"It is just that Meredith is about to give birth, and I have dreamt of being a father for many years."

"I have never seen you quite so giddy," Faramir commented.

"You will understand when you yourself become a father," Beregond replied.

"Perhaps," Faramir mused.

"Was there something I could do for you?"

"Ah, yes. This afternoon I wish to make a brief excursion to the Anduin," he said somberly. "It is the anniversary of my mother's death, and I would honor her on the shores of the river. Father refuses to give his permission unless I have guards to accompany me. I was coming to ask you, but it seems as though Meredith may enter labor at any moment."

"She is not due for another week yet," Beregond corrected. "I shall accompany you."

"Very well. Do you know where Bergil is?"

"Most likely at the stables. I saw him returning from a patrol this morning."

"Thank you, Beregond. I will meet you at the stables after the changing of the guards and the noon meal."

"As you wish," Beregond responded. As Faramir walked away, he then added under his breath, "My lord."

"I heard that!"

Shortly after, Faramir and his guard of three men rode south from Minas Tirith toward the river. There were only a few shreds of clouds drifting lazily through the blue sky, sped along by the intermittent western wind. The horses stretched out their limbs and galloped swiftly, the white city shrinking rapidly behind them. When they reached the banks of the Anduin, Faramir dismounted while the men kept back a respectful distance.

He took out the bundle of flowers and held them out, then cast them one by one on the water, watching as the current carried them away to the sea, to his mother's homeland. After bowing his head for a few moments, he returned to his companions.

"When I was small, mother would bring me and Boromir to the banks of the Anduin for picnics," Faramir told Bergil. "There would always be guards, but I didn't mind them so long as we could breathe in the open air and play on the grass."

He smiled at the memory, but his expression turned serious.

"Then she grew ill and had not the strength to ride anymore. In my innocence I begged her to take us still, convinced the magic of the air and grass would heal her. When she could no longer leave her bed, I would bring her flowers and scatter the petals on her bedspread. Father would scoff and sweep them off, but mother would take his hand and stop him, until she had no strength to do that either."

Faramir blinked back the tears that had sprung unbidden to his eyes and gave Bergil a watery smile.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It is alright," Bergil cut him off. "It is like I said before; memories are to be treasured and drawn on in times of hardship, not to be apologized over."

"You are wise beyond your years," Faramir said as they prepared to mount the horses. "How fortunate your nephew will be to have both you and Beregond to guide him."

Bergil was about to reply before a movement out of the corner of his eye put him on alert. He raised his hand to signal Beregond and Bregethor, their other companion.

"What is it?" Bregethor whispered.

"I am not sure," Bergil whispered back. "I thought I saw movement in the undergrowth over yonder."

"Stay here with Faramir and the horses," Beregond took charge. "I will reconnoiter."

They nodded their agreement. Beregond was stealthily making his way around the bushes when chaos erupted. Men leapt from the undergrowth, brandishing swords and bows.

"Look out!" Faramir heard right before someone knocked him to the ground. He grunted in surprise rather than pain as they both hit the ground with a thud.

"What—" Faramir sputtered before trailing off. In front of his eyes were the fletchings of a crudely made arrow. He followed the shaft to where it was buried in the center of Bergil's chest, a handsbreadth below the collarbone. The sounds of Beregond shouting at him, running toward him, and the whizzing of arrows by his head faded away. All Faramir saw was the awful stillness of his friend, whose chest did not rise and fall as it ought, and Bergil's lifeless eyes.

Dead. Gone in less than a breath.

Suddenly, all sounds rushed back to him at once as firm hands grasped his shoulders, dragging him to cover.

"Are you alright?" Beregond looked him over while Bregethor nocked and loosed another arrow. "Are you hurt?"

Faramir only glanced at him dully.

"He's in shock," Bregethor managed to say before returning to his defensive position. "We need to move to a better position if I am to be the only one covering us."

"No, that will not be necessary," Beregond replied, picking up his and Faramir's bows. He then turned his attention to the steward's son.

"Faramir!" he gazed at him intently, his nose inches away from the younger man. "Are you a trained warrior of Gondor?"

Faramir's slowly focused on Beregond's eyes.

"Yes," he whispered weakly.

"Are you?" Beregond said with a challenge in his voice, shoving the bow into Faramir's hand. "Then defend yourself!"

In response Faramir tightened his grip on the bow and joined the two soldiers to shoot at their attackers. There were not that many of them, perhaps eight or so ruffians, caravan robbers. When the robbers saw the Gondorians were not an easy target, they retreated quickly.

"We must pursue them!" Faramir leapt up, his eyes aflame. "They are getting away!"

"Let them go," Beregond pulled him back down again. "It is no use going after them."

"But they killed Bergil!" Faramir exclaimed angrily. "We must avenge his death."

"And how? Our horses were killed in the onslaught, and we are lightly armed," Beregond refuted.

He softened his tone and said, "I know it is not easy to hear, but the best course of action is to return to Minas Tirith and report the increase in bandit activity. Then a properly armed contingent can patrol and sweep the area."

Faramir clenched his fists and could feel his shoulders tightening. Yet he could not deny the truth in what Beregond said.

"And what of Bergil?"

"We should take his body back to the city," Beregond said. "Meredith would want to take care of his last passage."

At this point Bregethor cleared his throat.

"The night is upon us. We need to seek shelter. From the looks of those clouds, we will have rain tonight."

Faramir nodded.

"I know a cave not far from here. It is stocked with firewood and provisions for travelers. We can spend the night there."

Without waiting for the other men, he walked to where Bergil's body still lay. Faramir gently closed his friend's eyes and then closed his own while removing the arrow, trying to block his thoughts and concentrate on the arrow instead. Once that was done, he tossed the arrow aside with distaste and picked up his friend's body, ignoring Beregond's offer to help him. He wordlessly led the way to the nearby cave.

Bregethor started a fire as lightning flashed across the sky.

"Just in time," Beregond noted. "Come here and warm yourself, Faramir."

But Faramir had retreated to the farthest wall of the cave and sat down, leaning his head against it for support with his eyes closed.

"I'll make a hot drink," Bregethor offered.

Minutes later, he handed each man a cup of steaming tea. Faramir held his mug in his hands but did not bring it to his lips. Beregond and Bregethor began exchanging the first of their glances.


	6. Chapter 6

The heavy and restless night gave way to morning. It seemed as though the relentless downpour had washed the sky, leaving a cloudless blue with a pink edge where the sun was beginning to emerge. Faramir rose wordlessly and walked towards Minas Tirith with leaden steps. Beregond and Bregethor followed behind, bearing Bergil's body on a stretcher they had made the previous evening.

As the somber group reached the lowest level of the city, whispers began to build around them.

"Another young one," a wrinkled woman lamented to her neighbor who was bent with age. They looked on sadly but shed no tears, for this was too common of an occurrence for them. At the second level of the city, Beregond and Bregethor bore the stretcher to Beregond's house, where an unsuspecting Meredith waited. Faramir alone made his way to the citadel.

He hated this city of stone which stifled all life within it. The cold imposing structures sapped the vibrancy out of its inhabitants, so that the citizens of Gondor hurried to and fro with grim expressions on their faces and dogged determination in their hearts, but nothing more. Where was the laughter, the simple joy of being alive, and the flowers? Gone, all washed out to sea, he concluded.

"Lord Faramir," a guard announced as he entered the great hall where Denethor was seated on a cold stone throne.

"Ah, so you have returned," the steward remarked without glancing at his younger son.

"Yes, father."

The tone in Faramir's voice caused Denethor to look up suddenly.

"Has something occurred?"

Faramir had a sudden urge to confide in his father, to tell him that a man, nay, a boy, of his own age died before his very eyes. That the forces of evil which spawned in Mordor, so close to their own borders, were daily multiplying. That he felt a hatred bubbling inside him, searing his very soul, and he did not know its target nor how to process it. That he wanted a father's guidance. But years of experience taught him the wisdom of keeping quiet.

"We were attacked and one of my companions lost his life. His sister has a babe on the—"

"Companions?" Denethor interrupted, narrowing his eyes. "Do you mean your guards?"

"Yes, one of the guards, but also a companion. His name was Bergil."

"How tragic," Denethor murmured without emotion.

"Perhaps we could give some support to his family. His sister is expecting."

"Have the servants send some food and blankets, then," Denethor said airily, waving his hand in dismissal.

"What about money, sire?" Faramir knew he was asking for much. Ordinarily, when peasant soldiers died, their families could expect little aid from their rulers. They had to scrape by on the charity of their neighbors and family.

"Money?" the steward's voice increased an octave.

"Yes. His actions were heroic and deserve recognition," Faramir said resolutely. He licked his lips while Denethor stared at him in silence.

"Have you gone mad? We cannot dispense money to the family of every soldier who dies!"

"He gave his life for mine, father!"

Denethor stared at his son. Faramir rarely shouted, and never at his own father. But he had just done so, and was now breathing rapidly, clenched fists at his side. Finally, Denethor stirred.

"That was his duty as a soldier, no more."

With a burning heart and fire in his eyes, Faramir turned on his heels and escaped the hall. He hardly paid attention to where his feet led him, only dimly aware that they were taking him away from the upper levels of the city. The strong emotions he felt slowly died down until they were mere embers and he felt hollow inside. Everything had a gray hue and was tinged with darkness, and weariness weighed on him as never before.

Unbeknownst to him, Boromir followed closely behind in the lengthening shadows. He had seen his younger brother storm out of the palace and had intended to comfort him. But something caused him to hang back and silently watch as Faramir made his way down the levels to where the guardsmen and commoners dwelt. The younger of the brothers raised his hand to knock on the door; yet he hesitated at the last moment and let his hand drop to his side without touching the wood. He started back from the door and stood uncertainly in the road.

Faramir did not know why he arrived at Beregond's door. He was surprised he was able to find his way to this humble cottage, because he had only visited the residence once before. That was when he met Meredith. Meredith, who was now left to raise her child without Bergil.

"How can I look her in the eyes?" Faramir spoke aloud. "I am the reason her brother was killed. She has every right to hate me."

He heaved a sigh and was about to return to the citadel when the door opened.

"Ah, Faramir. I thought I heard you."

It was Beregond.

"Come in."

"I… I can't," Faramir quickly mumbled, trying to leave.

"No, come in."

"How can I face her, Beregond?" Faramir whispered desperately.

"You don't have to worry about that," Beregond said, holding the young lord by the wrist. He knew what must be going through Faramir's mind and felt pity toward him. What a heavy burden to bear, and no father with whom to share it.

"What do you mean? Is this not her home? Is she not inside, mourning her brother at this moment?"

"At this moment? No, she is not. She is sleeping."

"Then I should not disturb her." Faramir tried again to leave.

"You should come inside," Beregond insisted with steel in his voice and bodily dragged the steward's son through the doorway.

When Faramir entered a humble cottage, Boromir crossed the street and was able to see his brother through an open window pouring out a feeble puddle of light onto the darkening street. He observed Faramir pause in surprise and Beregond putting an arm around Faramir's shoulder.

"You needed to come inside to see this," Beregond was saying.

"This is the babe? What… when?" Faramir breathed.

"This afternoon, when she heard the news, Meredith went into labor."

"Ay!"

Faramir sat down and covered his face with his hands. Another two lives were endangered because of him. At this moment, Meredith entered the room.

"My lady!" Faramir hurriedly stood, but was unable to meet her eyes.

"None of this 'my lady' business, my lord," she said warmly. "Please sit. I will put on some tea."

"No no, please. You must rest."

"I am a hardworking woman, my lord. My body wearies from inactivity."

"Ah."

Suddenly, Faramir felt his mouth become dry and his palms sweaty. He cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, Meredith."

"It was not your fault, my lord."

"It was. It was my fault he was killed, and I was unable to secure any reward or compensation for you."

"He understood the risks, my lord. He would not want you to blame yourself, nor us to suffer undue grief," Meredith spoke with the wisdom borne of many generations of women who lost their husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons to the battlefield.

Silence reigned as Faramir, Beregond, and Meredith sat around a roughhewn kitchen table. When the baby began to fuss, Meredith rose to nurse him.

"We named him Bergil," Beregond remarked quietly.

Faramir began weeping. It was not the loud wailing that vented out its grief to the skies. It was a silent welling up of tears, of a heart torn and lacking the strength to make any noise. He folded his arms on the table and put his head down, his shoulders shaking soundlessly.

As the pale moon rose and shone on the White City, Faramir fell asleep with exhaustion. In the same room, a newborn boy called Bergil gurgled in his sleep. His parents, Meredith and Beregond, held each other in their arms and regarded the two young ones. One hardly knew anything of life, while the other had experienced too much already.

"He is different now. I could see it tonight," Beregond observed to his wife.

"How so, my love?"

"There was a look in his eyes of someone who has resigned himself to darkness. He does not think we can defeat evil," Beregond said.

"Do you think there is any hope?"

A realistic man at the core, Beregond did not have the heart to tell his wife what he truly thought. Instead, he changed topic.

"Have you seen a tree struck by lightning and yet live?"

"Yes, in my childhood."

"It continues to live, but where the lightning has struck, it has scarred over and the wood is dead."

"And you think that is Lord Faramir now," Meredith murmured into his shoulder.

"A part of him has scarred over and died. He will continue to live, but there is death and darkness where once there was life and light."

"Are you still referring to Faramir, or to Gondor now?"

"I do not know, Meredith. I do not know anymore."

"I know that I feel a shadow growing over us all," Meredith leaned into her husband and looked up at him. "But I know that there is always hope. We will defeat the shadow."

"I should like to live to see that day," Beregond mused. "To see Gondor and my young friend freed."


	7. Chapter 7

Boromir distorted his mouth in an exaggerated yawn. Next to him, Faramir attempted in vain to stifle a snort. The movements and noise attracted Denethor's attention. The steward, who had been impatiently listening to a petition by a foreign emissary, glanced in the direction of his two sons standing to the side of the throne. Faramir immediately placed his hand over his mouth and cupped his chin in his palm, nodding sagely as though he had been deep in thought. Denethor was suitably satisfied and turned back to the supplicant. As soon as Denethor's gaze left the pair, Faramir inconspicuously elbowed his brother in the ribs, causing him to grunt in surprise. A minute later, both were thrown out of the chamber.

"Well, that was not so bad, was it?" Boromir said cheerfully as he pretended to dust off his doublet where the guards had placed their hands.

"You always get us into trouble," Faramir said accusingly, but he too was smiling as the pair walked to a courtyard.

"Come, come. We are twelve no longer. Let us not bicker over minute details," Boromir dismissed the accusation with a wave of his hand.

"Besides," Boromir added. "Ever since you reached manhood two weeks ago, you have been entirely too serious."

"Too serious, am I?" Faramir echoed as a gleam came into his eye.

Boromir saw the glint, but it was too late for him to avoid getting tackled to the ground. After a bit of tussling, the brothers broke apart and grinned at each other breathlessly.

"I withdraw my assertion, brother," Boromir laughed.

"Good," Faramir nodded, then trailed off.

Boromir noticed his thoughtful look.

"What is it?" he asked.

"That man. I wonder if father will grant his request?" Faramir mused.

Rejecting the urge to tease his younger brother for the "serious" turn in conversation, Boromir recalled the man in question. His face was tanned and worn from years in the sun, showing he was both emissary and a farmer. Even though he had come to beg aid from the steward, the man still carried himself with pride, his shoulders unbent under Denethor's withering scorn.

"Quite improbable," Boromir concluded. "Rarely has aid been given to farmers from the most outlying areas, much less to those of another kingdom."

"Another kingdom? How do you know he does not hail from Gondor?"

"Contrary to your views, little brother, I was actually listening when the man was introduced. Did you not hear?"

"I was occupied with other matters," Faramir mumbled.

Yes, that was true. His mind had wandered to the young ladies at the ball celebrating his coming of age, which was odd because he never gave much thought to the fairer sex before. His days consisted of training and studies, with very little interaction with women his own age. There was a girl at the ball, though, with sparkling eyes the color of cornflowers…

"Faramir!"

Faramir snapped to attention to see his brother calling his name and waving his hand in front of his face.

"Did you hear anything I said?" Boromir demanded.

"No, sorry, brother," Faramir gave an embarrassed laugh.

"You must stop living in your head so much. Give heed to your surroundings or you may put yourself or your men in danger," Boromir advised.

"Yes, sir," Faramir replied half-jokingly.

"As I was saying," Boromir continued. "Father believes our limited resources are best spent on Minas Tirith and army garrisons. The remaining surplus would then be distributed to the surrounding towns. Any goods or gold given to the far-flung villages and farmsteads would have little return in terms of defense of the capital."

"Yet what of their livelihoods?"

"They have chosen their lot in life," Boromir shrugged. "We all have our assigned lot, and must do our duty the best we can."

"What of strengthening relations between kingdoms, and between peasant and liege lord?"

Boromir's response made him sound as though he were twice his age.

"In times like ours," he sighed. "We cannot afford such luxuries."

"It seems you do not have any hope, brother," Faramir observed. "I believe strengthening alliances will be for Gondor's benefit."

"And with whom?" Boromir retorted bitterly. "We have fought with our sweat and blood to hold back the dark forces of Mordor, with little relief or reinforcements on the horizon. No, brother, Gondor stands alone."

"Do you recall the loyalties of old? The Last Alliance of Elves and Men, or even the Battle of the Five Armies? When the free peoples of Middle Earth unite in a common cause, we are able to defeat the forces of evil."

"I would hesitate to place my faith on elves and dwarves. They are too preoccupied with their own affairs. Even were we to unite in a common goal, I fear the good of Gondor would not be their chief aim."

"The good of all the free peoples of Middle Earth is the good of Gondor," Faramir stated.

"As for other men," Boromir proceeded as though his brother had not spoken. "They are not to be relied on either. We must first strengthen our own position. For what good is a free Middle Earth if Gondor is destroyed and our city ruined?"

"What good is the White City if the whole earth is ravaged?" Faramir replied softly.

"You are too naïve to understand," Boromir said, more harshly than he intended. "The kingdom is unraveling and hope is scarce. Our people are losing faith. Would you see our father ruined?"

Faramir's words came in a torrent.

"I would see the glory of Gondor restored," he said. "I would see the White Tower glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze. I would see the tower guard calling us home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets, declaring, 'The Lords of Gondor have returned.' That is what I wish."

For a while, the two young men were silent, each imagining in their minds a time of peace and prosperity for their beloved kingdom. Finally, Boromir stirred.

"It is a lovely picture you paint, but the time for that is past."

Faramir hesitated, then leaned toward his brother.

"There is one who could bring it about."

"Faramir!"

Boromir whispered furiously and grasped Faramir by the shoulders, hushing him.

"Do not ever let father hear you say so," he cautioned, releasing his brother.

"I am not afraid of father."

"I know, little brother."

"What of yourself? Would you welcome the king?"

"That depends on what manner of man he is," Boromir replied.

At that moment, a messenger arrived from the steward, informing them that the steward was waiting for them in the throne room. Despite Faramir's courageous assertion seconds ago, the brothers exchanged a nervous glance. An irate Denethor was not a force to be reckoned with, and they had certainly raised his ire with their prior behavior.

"Ah, my sons," Denethor greeted them when they entered.

"Father."

"Faramir, I believe the ranger captain has a mission for you. You may go."

"Yes, father."

As Faramir departed, he could still hear Denethor speaking.

"Boromir, you and I have important matters to discuss."

The doors closed behind him and Faramir could no longer hear the conversation. He made his way to the ranger quarters.

Though trained by the same swordsmaster as Boromir, Faramir did not favor the sword and shield like his older brother. He preferred the skills of marksmanship, strategy, and stealth, qualities which suited him for scouting, reconnaissance, and ambush assignments. Although he was comfortable in the wilderness, he also had an appreciation for beauty and poetry. Together, these allowed him to be at ease in the humblest cottage to the most lavish palace. The ranger captain knew this and used his abilities to the fullest. Denethor remained woefully oblivious to his son's contributions.

Faramir reached the headquarters and rapped his knuckles on the open door.

"You asked for me, sir?"

"Yes. You are exactly what we need for this mission."

* * *

Thank you to the readers who have kept with this story, and to those of you who have reviewed! I wrote this chapter because I wanted to show that Faramir was still a normal young man who fought with his brother, daydreamed about girls, and was capable of bouncing back from tragedy like so many resilient young people I know. But don't worry; he is slowly and surely becoming the character we all know and love :)


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